A Slumbering Feast

Cynical Wordsmith

Insomnia, I find,
Is very bittersweet.
The night of,
And the day after,
Are utterly miserable.
The trudgery and drudgery of the day,
Seems ceaseless.
This way, that,
Do that, this,
The mental exhaustion continues
Until I am a shell, hollow,
An empty cockpit
On autopilot.

I’m filled with daydreams
Of such glorious sleep.
That all day yearning
That has led to this moment
Where I can finally,
Hopefully,
Rest.

But that second wind comes,
And the Gods laugh at my pain.
And this night, like every night,
Will invariably be the same.
I feel as though I’ve been starving,
Searching for fruit or for game,
And when I finally appease this hunger,
I fear I shall never wake again.

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